


El Conquistador

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aliens are going after athletes</p>
            </blockquote>





	El Conquistador

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in Compadres #11 and then in Green Floating Weirdness #19 under the pen name Gillian Holt.

_"You're not getting any younger, you know."_

 

          The rest of the members of the Blackwood Project gathered around the basement computer workstation, waiting silently while their resident hacker, Norton Drake, explained the reason for his early morning summons.

          "The Cray turned up something overnight and tripped my alarm.  I checked it out and it caught my attention," he said, his fingers typing across the keyboard.  "I thought you'd better take a look."

          Suzanne McCullough, microbiologist and psychologist, pushed her sleep-tangled long brown hair off her forehead and muttered, "This better be good."

          "My sentiments exactly," Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse concurred, then yawned.

          "Coffee's almost ready," Norton promised.

          Suzanne grunted and walked over to the machine, prepared to wait until the pot filled so she could pour herself a kick-start.

          Harrison Blackwood watched her, then grinned at Ironhorse.  "It's almost five o'clock," he chided the pair.  "Time to rise and shine."

          "I rise and shine just fine," Suzanne murmured, adding, "At _six-thirty_."

          Paul watched the computer screen divide into eight boxes, each with a scrolling report.  Norton typed some more and the print stopped scrolling.  "Well?" the soldier asked.

          "Okay," Norton said.  "Ol' mama Cray noticed that there were several reports from across the country on athletes disappearing."

          "Athletes?" Ironhorse asked, his attention shifting from the screen to the computer expert.

          Norton nodded.  "And not just any ol' run-of-the-mill jocks, big guy.  _Triathletes_.  All men, thirty-five to forty-five years old, a mix of races and ethnic groups."

          "That's awfully specific, don't you think?" Suzanne asked, moving closer for a better look at the monitor screen.

          Harrison nodded.  "Tell me more," he instructed Norton, reaching out to rest a hand on the man's shoulder.

          "The oldest report I could find was three months ago.  There was about a five week lull, then a burst of nine reports over the last seven weeks.  Twenty-three men are missing."

          "Details, Mr. Drake," Ironhorse requested, starting to pace silently behind the threesome.  He side-stepped to avoid Suzanne as she moved back to the coffeemaker and poured herself a cup.

          The hacker leaned back in his voice-activated wheelchair and folded his arms over his chest.  "During the races, between one and three athletes disappeared – always in the last leg of a race and always in remote areas.  No leads.  But it was always the leaders of the pack; guys who would've come at least in the top five, probably the winners – _if_ they'd made it to the end.  At least that's the guess made by the local press in each case when they reported the disappearances."  He turned slightly and looked from the coffee maker to Suzanne.  "Can I talk you out of a cup?"

          "Sure," she replied, then glanced at Blackwood and Ironhorse.  "You want some?"

          "Yes, please," the colonel replied.

          "If you don't mind," Blackwood said.

          "Not this time," she replied, then turned back to pour.

          Blackwood's attention shifted back to the screen.  "This does sound suspiciously like our aliens."

          "But what would the aliens want with triathletes?" Suzanne asked, handing Paul his coffee.

          "Healthy bodies?" Harrison offered.

          "There are a lot more – easier – ways of getting those," Ironhorse countered.

          Suzanne carried two steaming cups over to Norton and Harrison.  Her duty done, she returned to get her own cup before moving back to the computer.  "Are there any other disappearances concerning other kinds of athletes?" she asked.

          "The Cray's combing the databases, looking for anything like that right now," Drake explained, then took a sip of the hot coffee.  He sighed contentedly.  "But I don't think so. Seems like they want the iron-men."

          "But why?" Harrison asked.

          The conversation shifted into a brainstorming session on what made triathletes different – diverse physical skills, peak physical condition, high endurance levels, outdoor competition – but nothing the project members suggested made the athletes an obvious target for the aliens.  Not when high school and professional athletes had been left untouched.

          "This is getting us nowhere, people," Ironhorse interrupted after an hour of wide-ranging speculation.

          "What do you suggest?" Harrison asked, leaning back against the workstation.

          "Look," Ironhorse said.  "First of all, we don't even know for sure that the aliens are behind this."

          "Who else?" Suzanne countered.

          "An illegal organ selling ring could be responsible for—" the soldier started to argue.

          "That's it!"

          The three other project members turned to stare at Blackwood, who shoved himself off the workstation where he'd been leaning.  "Don't you see?" he asked with renewed passion in his eyes.  "Organ thieves would take _any_ athlete they could find, but the aliens must be after something very specific, something that only these particular athletes can give them."

          "But we—"

          Suzanne interrupted Ironhorse.  "Or give them enough of?" she asked softly as her own suddenly rushing thoughts focused.

          "Like the brains?" Norton asked.

          "Exactly," Harrison said, slapping the man's shoulder.

          Ironhorse shook his head.  "Wait, we knew it was the aliens because they took only healthy brains, but all these guys are healthy.  All athletes are healthy."

          "Exactly!" Harrison boomed.

          "So how do we know it's aliens?" the soldier demanded.

          "Because this is so specific," the astrophysicist explained.  "There has to be something particular about these athletes, something that they have to offer the aliens…"

          Ironhorse wasn't convinced that they were dealing with aliens, but if Blackwood thought they were, they probably were – the man was uncanny in that regard.

          "Fine," he said, then pinned Norton with a serious black gaze.  "Get me a list of upcoming triathlon events."

          "Will do, big guy."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          As the sun set into the Pacific, Ironhorse sat on the outdoor patio of their government safehouse, studying a list of triathlons planned across the country.  He occasionally glanced up to appreciate the changing colors that streaked across the cloud-dappled sky, wondering what in the world aliens wanted with highly specialized athletes.  He'd spent the better part of the day asking himself that question, and he wasn't any closer to an answer now than he was when he'd started.

          He was an athlete.  He'd even competed in a few triathlons, but there was nothing special about the event, other than the fact that the competitors managed three events in one day.

          He grinned.  When he'd competed in the Olympic decathlon he'd managed five events in one day.  But that was over ten years ago.  Still, he was in excellent condition.  He had no choice.  Being a member of the Army's elite Delta Force left no room for leisure – especially now that he was responsible for defending the planet from marauding aliens.

          He forced his attention back to the printout Norton had given him.  The closest event was in Portland, Oregon, but that was two months away.  Another event in Tucson, Arizona, was only three weeks away.  Not as close, but it was less of a wait.

          "What do you have?" Harrison said, walking out to join him, then flopping down on the lounge chair and running a hand over his unruly light brown curls.

          "A list of triathlons planned for the next three months."

          "Anything close enough for us to check out?" Harrison asked.

          Paul nodded.  "There's one in Tucson, in three weeks.  That should give us enough time."

          "Time?" the scientist repeated.  "For what?"

          Ironhorse didn't bother to look up.  "To get ready, Doctor."

          Blackwood sat up straighter and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he straddled the chair.  "I'm not following."

          "Three weeks should be enough time for some of the Omegans to get ready to enter the event," he explained nonchalantly.

          Harrison's eyes widened slightly and he nodded.  "Good idea!  Then we watch and see if the aliens take the bait?"

          Paul nodded.  "Which will be me."

          "You?"

          Ironhorse stood, annoyed at the astrophysicist's doubting tone.  "Harrison, the aliens took the athletes who were winning the event every time.  We have to put someone in who's really running the event."

          "And you think you can do that?"

          Paul's black eyebrows arched dangerously.  "You think I can't?"

          Harrison held up his hands to fend off the anger he saw building up in the soldier's eyes like thunderheads.  "That's not for me to say, Paul, but you're not getting any younger, you know."

          The anger dissipated, a slight grin lifting the right side of Ironhorse's lips.  "But I am getting better, Doctor."

          Harrison chuckled.  "I'll leave the details to you."

          "I thought we might as well use the trip to check in with the Sigma Squad and the scientists we have working there."

          Blackwood nodded.  "I was hoping you'd say that.  I'd like to talk to Dr. Hilderbrant, see how the genetic work is going."

          Ironhorse nodded.  "I'll set it up for the day after the event."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The following morning found Ironhorse sitting in the coach-house kitchen, he and his three sergeants gathered at one of the picnic tables the soldiers used for meals, each with coffee and notepads.

          "Okay," Ironhorse said.  "There are three phases to the event.  A thirty mile bike ride – off road – then a twenty mile trail ride."

          "On horseback?" Derriman asked.  The oldest of the four, John Michael Derriman looked more like an old cowboy than a highly trained Special Forces sergeant, thanks to his graying brown hair, tanned and weathered face, infectious smile and soft Kentucky drawl.

          Ironhorse nodded.  "And then a ten mile run to wind it up."

          "Intense," Stavrakos said, then added with a boyish grin, "Sounds about like our daily grind."  The youngest of the three sergeants, Alex Stavrakos was a tall, broad-shouldered Greek with a kind face and flashing smile that attracted the ladies.

          Coleman and Derriman grinned behind their coffee cups.

          Ironhorse let the comment slide.  "I'll need someone in each of the phases with me.  Two someones, actually."

          The three sergeants sat up straighter.  "Sir?" Coleman asked, her large blue eyes rounding slightly.  Originally from Army Intelligence, Norah Coleman was lithe, blonde, and beautiful.  She was also a highly competent, expertly trained SpecOps operative.

          "You heard right, Sergeant," he half-growled.  "I'll be competing in the event, but I want fresh back-up in each phase.  I'll have to concentrate on the event if I'm going to attract the aliens' attention."

          "Beggin' the Colonel's pardon," Derriman drawled softly.  "But might'n it be a better idea to have one of the young bucks run the whole thing?" he asked, then added a belated, "Sir."

          Paul stifled his immediate reply.  "John, I appreciate what you're getting at, but the victims have been men in their late 30s and early 40s, and—"

          "And these guys were leading the field?" Coleman interjected, then ducked her head to avoid the annoyed glare from Ironhorse.

          "They were," Ironhorse almost snapped.  He regarded the three sergeants for a moment, then asked, "Is it so hard to imagine that a man in his forties might still be in excellent shape?"

          "No, sir," the three chorused, remembering their own training officers at Ft. Bragg.

          "And am I, or am I not, in excellent shape?"

          "Excellent, sir," the three replied in unison.

          "Then what's the problem?"

          "Nothing, sir," was the collective, positive rely.

          "Good.  Now, who do we have who's good on an off-road bike?"

          Derriman and Stavrakos immediately looked at Coleman.  The pretty blonde sergeant sighed.  "That would be me, sir."

          "Anyone else?" the Colonel asked.

          Coleman bristled, but replied, "Goodson rides, too, but he's not as fast as I am."

          Ironhorse jotted the names on his notepad.  "Good, with a thirty mile course we'll need someone riding a little slower to keep an eye on things and someone riding with me."  He looked up, catching Coleman's gaze.  "Think you can keep up, Sergeant?"

          "Yes, sir," she replied, her ego assuaged.  "Might even beat you."

          Ironhorse allowed himself a grin.  "I wouldn't doubt it for a moment, Sergeant.  Now, who're our horseback riders?" he asked.

          Derriman cleared his throat and said resignedly, "Me, sir."

          "Anyone else?"

          The older sergeant thought a moment.  "Not really, although I heard something about Franklin being in high school or college rodeo before he decided to become a chopper jock."

          "Find out," Ironhorse instructed.  "If that's true, have him get his rear-end reacquainted with a saddle."

          "Will do," Derriman said, making a note.

          "And I'll need two runners."

          "Alex and Stein," Coleman said without hesitation.

          "Me?" Stavrakos said, the small grin on his face making it clear he agreed, but he still had an image to maintain.

          Coleman grinned and nodded.  "Stein's our marathon man, and Alex is a strong runner under fifteen miles."

          Ironhorse nodded.  "Very good.  I suggest you start training now.  I'd like to see a schedule when it's ready… say by 1600?"  He stood.  "We have three weeks, people.  Make it happen."

          "Yes, sir," the sergeants replied, standing as well.  They watched Ironhorse leave, then sank back down onto the picnic bench.

          "Think he can do it?" Stavrakos asked.

          "Hell, yes," Derriman said.  "Question is, can we?"

          "We'd better," Coleman said, "or we'll never hear the end of it."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          While Ironhorse and the Omegans trained, Norton continued to monitor his supercomputer for any more disappearances, finding nothing.  He shook his head and typed in the command for another search perimeter.  Looking up as Ironhorse entered through the annex door, Drake grinned.

          "Looks like you just saw twenty miles of rough road, Colonel."

          "Close enough," the soldier groaned, walking slowly toward the coffee machine.

          Norton's eyebrows went up, silently asking the obvious question.

          "Running I can do," Paul said.  "Riding, fine, but this damned bicycling…" he trailed off, shaking his head as he reached gently for his aching backside and tenderly touched the bruised flesh.  "I don't know about the bicycling.  Why the hell couldn't they do a swim?"

          Drake chuckled softly.  "Probably because they're long on sand and short on water."

          "Poor excuse if you ask me," Ironhorse muttered as he poured himself a cup of coffee, then shuffled to a padded chair and carefully eased himself down.

          "Find a few muscles you forgot you had?" Norton asked.

          The soldier shot the hacker a lethal glare.  "Something like that."

          "Not to mention bruises in places only your mother or your girlfriend should know about?"

          "Tell me about it," he complained.  "Have you found anything?"

          "Nada," Drake said.  "Maybe the bad guys got what they wanted and they've given up on exercise."   

          "Maybe," Ironhorse conceded.  "But we have to assume they're still out there, waiting for the next opportunity to strike."

          Norton nodded, knowing the soldier was right.  "Gonna be ready in ten days?"

          "We don't have a choice, Mr. Drake," Ironhorse said as he slowly stood, then took his coffee and headed for the stairs.  "I'm going to go call a man about a horse.  If you see Blackwood, tell him I'd like a few minutes of his time."

          "Will do, big guy."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The flight to Tucson was uneventful, the drive from the airport to the hotel equally so.  Early spring in the desert meant pockets of green broke up the otherwise brown and gray landscape, and an occasional burst of wildflowers added a touch of color.  The hotel hosting the event was located slightly northwest of town and nestled in the cactus-covered foothills.

          The project members climbed out of their spacious rental car under a large overhang that looked like the arch of a Spanish castle, and were immediately met by a smiling young man with blond hair and a very good tan.

          "Welcome to the El Conquistador," he said.  "If you'll give me your keys I'll see that your luggage is brought in and your car parked."

          "Thank you," Suzanne said, handing the keys over.

          "You can check in directly ahead," the young man said, heading for the car's trunk.

          The foursome entered the air-conditioned lobby of the resort and walked directly to the registration desk over thick, southwestern-patterned carpet.  An attractive, equally tanned and blonde woman looked up from her computer.  "Hello, I'm Tiffany.  Welcome to Tucson," she greeted.  "Checking in?"

          "We're here for the triathlon," Ironhorse explained.  "Blackwood et al."

          Harrison looked slightly surprised that Paul had registered them under his name, but he hid it well as the woman typed the name in.

          "Blackwood… yes, here you are – four adults for the weekend.  And you'll be staying in one of our bungalows."  She typed some more, then reached into a drawer and pulled out four magnetic keys and proceeded to code them.  That done, she pulled a map from a pile in a rectangular Gila basket and encircled the schematic of the lobby with her pen.  "This is where you are now."

          She drew a line out a side door, past the pool, and to a small stand-alone building on the far side of the pool.  "This is bungalow C.  It has one of our best views.  Please, let us know if we can get you anything – extra towels, food, drinks.  Just give housekeeping a call.  We hope you enjoy your stay here at the El Conquistador."

          "Thank you," Harrison said with a sensual smile.

          "You're welcome," the young woman replied, looking up as a young Latino man entered with their luggage.  "Bungalow C, Roberto."

          "Got it," he said, heading out without the Project members.

          Following the map, the project members noted the scenery as they passed three of the hotel's restaurants – café, Mexican, and a steakhouse – a large outdoor pool, and a small cactus garden before reaching the bungalow, which looked more like a small house.

          Ironhorse used his key to unlock the door and led the way inside.  With four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a living room and a full kitchen, the accommodations were big enough to house the four adults and give them room to spread out Paul's maps and security equipment.

          Once they settled in, Ironhorse called the front desk, leaving messages for the Omegans, who were all set to arrive in pairs and threes before suppertime.  He hung up as a knock sounded at the door.  Suzanne opened it and found the young man who had first greeted them.

          "Hi, I'm Scott, and here are your car keys.  It's parked on level three, stall seven."

          "Three, seven," the microbiologist repeated.  "Thank you."

          "You're very welcome.  Enjoy your stay."

          Without waiting for a tip the young man turned and headed off.

          "They must pay these kids pretty good," Norton commented.

          "Remind me to leave a short note at the front desk," Suzanne said.  "Everyone's been really helpful and nice.  I'm impressed."

          "Me too," Harrison said, clearly thinking about Tiffany.

          Suzanne shook her head.  "I'm going to give Debi a call.  When do we eat?"

          "After you call," Ironhorse assured.  He checked his watch.  Just a little after noon… another six hours and the rest of his people would be there.  He glanced at Suzanne, who was already on the phone.  He probably had time to get the passive security set up before she was done.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The next morning, after an early breakfast, Ironhorse and the soldiers met and drove the course as best they could, making notes on their maps and discussing the best methods of surveillance.  The terrain was rough, rocky, and more open than Ironhorse had hoped.  But with a couple thousand spectators expected along the route, not to mention volunteers, competitors, press, and police, there would be plenty of opportunities for his soldiers to blend in.

          When they were done he and the other competing soldiers would get in some practice miles on the bikes and a couple of miles on foot.  Then, after dinner he'd go with Derriman and Franklin to pick up the horses they'd be using.

          "Okay," Paul said, checking the map against the hill they stood on.  "Here's where I want some people to keep an eye on the horseback section…"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "How are the horses?" Suzanne asked as Ironhorse walked up to join them in the hotel's Mexican restaurant.

          He slid onto the thickly padded booth with a grateful sigh.  "Fine," he said.  "They'll be just fine.  Derriman's getting them settled in at the hotel's stables right now."

          "And the course?" Harrison asked.

          "It's a lot more open than I expected, but that means that while it might be easy for the aliens to blend in, it'll also be easy for my people to blend into the crowds and look for them.  The event coordinators have given us complete access to volunteer and time sites."  He looked to Norton.  "Anything?"

          Drake shook his head.  "The bad guys are lying low."

          "Any ideas where they might strike?" Harrison asked after a bit of his vegetarian tostada.

          "There are two areas that match the past profiles, both toward the end of the race, both isolated.  One we can cover, the second we can't without tipping our hand."

          "You mean you really will be vulnerable there?" Suzanne asked, worried but obviously enjoying her black beans and rice.

          Ironhorse nodded.  "But don't forget I'll have the two Omegans running with me."

          "But one will be back with the main pack, Paul," Harrison said, looking decidedly unhappy with the news.  "One man as back-up isn't enough.  There has to be a way to position someone—"

          "Harrison, we looked.  There's a small notch the trail passes through, and there's a bend leading onto the notch.  It's narrow and too close for another rest stop – _if_ there was room for one – and a time check wouldn't make sense there."

          "I don't like it," Suzanne said.

          "It's a necessary risk," Ironhorse countered.  "I'll wear a wire in case there's trouble. Now, I want some food.  I'm starving."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Sleeping one hour out of every five meant that Harrison Blackwood had a lot of extra time on his hands, time he spent worrying about what could go wrong.  He glanced at the clock on the wall in the bungalow living room – three o'clock in the morning.  Ironhorse would begin the day-long race at seven.

          He drew in a deep breath and held it for a count of three, then let it out, trying to force a calm to settle his frantic thoughts.  It didn't work.

 _Come on_ , he silently scolded himself.   _We've been in tighter situations than this…_

          After all, there would be plenty of soldiers positioned all along the course, scanning everyone involved, looking for the aliens.  Others would be in all-terrain vehicles, ready to move in on a moment's notice when called.  And two more would be in each event, wired up for communication and keeping an eye on Ironhorse.

_So why my I so damned fidgety?_

_Something's going to happen.  Something unexpected.  Something, something, something!  But what?_

          He knew the aliens were there, waiting, watching, planning how they'd kidnap the leading athletes.  Kidnap Ironhorse.

          There was no doubt in the scientist's mind that Paul would be among the top five competitors.  He would be, end of discussion.

          Harrison shook his head.  Why was he tapped into the aliens?  And if he was, why the hell didn't he know what they were planning so he could _do_ something about it?

          He leaned back against the soft sofa, massaging his temples with his fingertips.  They were going to get Ironhorse.  It was a fact, just like the sunrise.  It was inevitable.

          The only question remaining was whether or not the Omegans could get to him in time.  _But in time for what?_

          Harrison glanced at the clock again.  Three-fifteen.  It was going to be a long, _long_ day…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse ignored the crowd that was slowly gathering along the road and up on the desert hills and concentrated on stretching.  He glanced skyward, noting that the early morning cloud cover appeared to be holding out and silently thanked the spirits responsible for his good fortune.  The longer the clouds held out the cooler the day and the easier the first event would be.

          Stretch finished, Ironhorse double-checked his mountain bike, making sure everything was in perfect working order.  All the equipment he might need – extra tubes, air pump, break cables – rested in the pouch attached to the back of his seat, and two water bottles sat full in wire holders attached to the bike's frame.  Everything was ready.

          He pulled on finger-less gloves, then rolled his neck and shoulders before slipping on his sunglasses.

          "Don't forget this," Suzanne said, stepping up to pin Paul's official number – 107 – to his tank top.  "Are you wearing sunscreen?"

          "Yes, and thanks," he said, then glanced at Coleman and Goodson.  "All wired up?" he asked.

          Coleman nodded.  "They're picking us up loud and clear, and we can hear them just fine."

          "Your turn," Suzanne said.

          Ironhorse nodded and turned so the microbiologist could use a pair of thin, long-nose tweezers to insert a small communication receiver in his ear canal.  The mouthpiece was a thin plastic-encased wire that had been sewn into the crew-neck of Ironhorse's tank top.  Coleman and Goodson had matching gear.

          "Test," he said.

          "This is Rider-2," Derriman's Kentucky drawl announced.  "Read you loud and clear."

          "This is Runner-3," Stavrakos said.  "Reading you five by five."

          The replies rolled in one after another.  The system linked all the soldiers together just like they'd planned.  So far, so good.

          "Tell me," Ironhorse said to the two waiting soldiers.

          Goodson recited the basic game plan.  "I'll hang with the majority of the riders, Norah will stay with you.  Alverez will be at the third time check – one hand all clear, two hands bad guys sighted.  One hand up, one down, bad guys spotted, but not pinpointed."

          "If they are sighted and identified," Coleman picked up.  "Seth moves up with me while Alverez puts them under surveillance."

          Ironhorse nodded.  He would be concentrating on the race itself, making sure that he stayed with the leaders so he'd be a tempting target later on.  It was up to his troops to manage the crowd, scan for the aliens, and keep an eye on them once they were located. Not to mention keeping his ass safe and sound.

          A man with a bullhorn announced: "Competitors, to the starting line.  To the starting line, please!"

          Ironhorse gave Suzanne and Harrison a last reassuring smile.  "See you at the first transition point," he said.

          "Be careful," Blackwood said.  "I know they're here."

          Ironhorse nodded, taking the comment seriously.  He pulled on his helmet and adjusted the strap under his chin.

          "Good luck," Suzanne said.

          He gave her a quick smile, then mounted his bike and followed the two Omegans to the starting line.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Maneuvering through the other bike riders, Ironhorse settled in behind the three leaders and concentrated on keeping up with them.  It was hard not to challenge the second and third men, but he wasn't there to compete and maybe win the event.  He was there to act as bait, and that meant he had to stay as fresh as possible while hanging with the top three.  And, he knew, it was either going to be much easier or much harder than he'd thought.

          The majority of the bike course was off-road, but the mountain bikes were designed for the rough terrain that took them up, over, and through the Tucson foothills.  He noted absently that the trail had been especially designed for the fat-tire bikes, widened and smoothed with man-made dips and hills evenly spaced for added excitement.  He guessed most weekends saw the trail traveled by teenagers.

          The course was deceptively easy from a visual examination like the one he'd conducted two days earlier.  It wasn't until riding it that the twenty-plus inclines burned into his calves, reminding him that the course was designed to test the limits of the athletes there.  Taking a deep breath, Ironhorse stood on the pedals and pumped to keep up with the leaders.

          The scenery, beautiful in its own harsh way, was lost on the competitors, who concentrated on maneuvering the dusty path, avoiding rocks that had fallen onto the flat, and trying not to think about what a tumble off the trail and into the wild cactus would net them.  Here and there Paul caught sight of his people, but the radio link remained silent.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The first ten miles of the bike race were moderately difficult as the bikers moved from the flat of the desert floor and up into the rough and irregular hills.  The cloud-cover helped, keeping temperatures down.  The second ten miles were easier, carrying the riders down the hillside and allowing the competitors to jockey for better positions before going into the last ten miles, which took them back up the next set of hills.

          As Ironhorse flew by the third time check he spotted Alverez, one hand raised in a silent signal.  No sign of the aliens.

          He cursed under his breath.  No wonder the radio chatter had been nil.  They hadn't spotted anything concrete or even suspicious.  _Damn, damn, damn…_

          He had hoped that they would've already spotted the creatures.  What if they didn't strike?  What if Norton was right and they already had what they wanted?

_What if, what if, what if!_

          He forced the doubts away and concentrated on staying with the five bikers who now led the pack as they started back into the last leg of the bike race.  The incline grew steeper, making the riders work harder.  Ironhorse puffed, making sure he drew in deep breaths, and tried to ignore the burning in his calves and the ache in his groin.  He pulled past the fifth rider, then the fourth, and finally the third.

          "Heads up, folks, Ranger-7 has a possible…" echoed in his ear.

          They topped a hill and Ironhorse realized that he'd reached the end of the bike race sooner than he expected, having held onto the third position.  Breaking to a stop, he quickly moved the bike out of the way, then reached automatically for one of the large paper cups full of Gatorade.  He downed the contents, then did the same with a second.  He felt someone take the bike away and unconsciously noted that it was Peterson.

          Suzanne appeared at his elbow, holding out a pair of old loose jeans and his boots.

          Paul unhooked his helmet and pulled it off, handing it to the microbiologist.  She handed him the jeans and he stepped into the loose pants, then leaned over to free the Velcro straps on his bike shoes, slipping them off.  He handed them to Suzanne and took the boots, pulling them on as he asked, "Anything?"

          "Not yet," she said.  "Cory and Hanks thought they'd picked up something, but—"

          "Ranger-7 here," the comm-link interrupted.  "The lead didn't pan out.  Repeat, we have a negative."

          "Where's Blackwood?" Ironhorse asked, accepting his baseball cap from Suzanne. Using his fingers, he combed back his sweat-damp hair and pulled on the hat.

          "He's at the next transition point," she said.  "He's monitoring the communications from the soldiers in the crowd, tracking any possible sightings and looking for patterns."

          Ironhorse nodded, making his way over to the deep maroon horsetrailer where three mounts stood, waiting.  Derriman and Franklin were checking their saddles and Ironhorse did the same to his saddle pad, making sure the cinch was tight.  That done, he scooped up a water bottle full of an orange-colored sports drink and sucked it down.

          He checked his watch.  Five minutes before he was back on the clock.

          Bending over, he quickly checked his mount's hooves.  Finding them in good shape, he straightened and patted the animal's neck.  The short, stocky buckskin tossed his head and swished his black tail, wanting to go.  With nothing better to do, the horse rubbed the rope hackamore against Ironhorse's shoulder, hoping to dislodge it.

          "Oh no, you don't," Paul said, catching the animal's head and giving him a stern look.  "Save that for the trail, we're gonna need it."

          "He's rather… ugly," Suzanne said, studying the tan gelding with black mane and tail skeptically.

          Paul flashed her a smile.  "Eddie's part mustang; he's used to running over rocky ground."

          The microbiologist nodded, reaching out to scratch the animal's forehead.  "So he's sure-footed and has the endurance you'll need."

          "I hope so," Ironhorse said, swinging onto the thick saddle pad, then working his feet into the small wooden stirrups.  Attached to the back of the pad with Velcro were two small saddlebags, one with a spare hackamore and hoof-pick, the other with three bottles of the same orange-colored sports drink to help him replenish himself before the run.

          "Me, too," Suzanne said.  "He's certainly not going to win any points for looks."

          Reaching down, he grabbed the soft-rope reins of the hackamore and let Eddie know he was in command.  The stocky buckskin tossed his head, ready to race.

          Ironhorse reined the mustang around and looked down at Derriman and Franklin.  "Tell me."

          "I'll hang with the pack," Franklin said.  "The Sarge'll keep your tail in sight."

          "At time check five Payton'll be there to let us know what the ET status is," Derriman said, then added, "That saddle pad all you're gonna use?"

          Ironhorse nodded.  "Cuts the weight down and gives me a better shot at staying with the leaders."

          "That little mustang'll keep you in the running," Franklin assured, a wide smile on his handsome black face.  He mounted his lanky gray mare and gave her neck a pat.

          Derriman swung onto his appaloosa mare and nodded.  "But he sure ain't much to look at."

          "As long as he gets the job done," Paul replied as the P.A. squeaked.

          "Contestants to the starting line," a voice announced.  "To the starting line, please."

          The three Omegans moved past Suzanne and she gave them a wave.  "Good luck!  And be careful!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The terrain was rougher than Ironhorse expected, but Eddie's pace never faltered, the small buckskin hanging in with the two leaders, who were also riding mustangs or mustang mixes.  Paul remained busy, scanning the trail directly ahead, but letting Eddie pick his own path over the broken rocks and cactus.

          As it neared noon the sun finally burned the cloud cover away and shone down on the desert, rapidly increasing the heat.  Ironhorse pulled his baseball cap lower, cutting off the glare.  The sunglasses he wore turned the hills slightly yellow, but he was grateful he had them now.

          Like the bike course, the horse trail started out with a ride up into the hills, then headed down, and finally back up again, but on a much more gradual incline.

          As they neared the end of the ride Eddie stumbled, but recovered easily and pressed on, clearly disliking the view of two tails directly in front of him.

          Ironhorse grinned.  Eddie planned on winning this event, and, he admitted to himself, he was slipping into the spirit of the competition himself.  After all, he had to be   a competitor in order to be mistaken for a competitor.

          "Heads up.  Ranger-3 and we have a possible bogie."

          Paul let Eddie push past the second horse, but pulled his head up before he could take a bite out of the lead horse's rump.

          "Come on," he said softly, wanting to know if they'd finally located the aliens.

          "Ranger-3, I swear we made contact, but we can't locate the aliens."

          "Ranger-4, we picked up a blip, too, but nothing concrete."

          "Bike-2.  Sounds like they're mobile," Coleman's voice announced.  "Skyhawk, can you take a look?"

          "Roger, Bike-2," the chopper pilot replied.  "I'm swinging your direction now."

          Ironhorse glanced up, watching the helicopter that had been shadowing the racers swing off.  The pilot and men on board were all soldiers, but the craft was one they'd borrowed from a local television station.  Hopefully the aliens would think that the news chopper was just getting crowd footage.

          "Blackwood.  These possible contacts are moving progressively toward the foot race course."

          "Mobile-7.  The course looks quiet."

          The comm-link chatter fell off and Paul concentrated on keeping Eddie on track as they passed the lead horse and moved into the lead.  Once in front of the pack the stocky buckskin dropped his head and picked up speed.  Ironhorse reached back for the last bottle and sucked it down, knowing the last leg of the race was not far off.

          Returning the empty bottle to the saddlebags, he noted that Derriman was in the fourth position, his appaloosa hanging in gamely.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The grueling ride came to an end just after two.  As he slid off the buckskin Ironhorse realized that he'd be running during the hottest part of the day.  He'd tried to stay hydrated during the ride, but it was hard in the unforgiving sunlight.

          Coleman stepped up and took Eddie's reins.  Paul patted the horse on the shoulder as he walked past.  "Good boy."

          Harrison reached out and steadied him while Paul pulled off his boots and jeans, then accepted the fresh socks and running shoes the scientist handed him.

          "What's the status?" he asked, sitting down on a waiting bench to change socks, pull the shoes on, and tie the laces tight.  That done, he accepted a tube of sunscreen and slathered a dollop over his exposed legs, arms, neck, hands, and face.  Finished, he pushed his wet hair back and pulled the baseball cap back on.

          "You're in third place," Blackwood informed him.

          Paul stood and walked to the long table, taking a paper cup full of Gatorade and draining it.  He took a second from Blackwood, finishing that one as well before he asked. "How about our friends?"

          "Still just hints here and there, but no concrete contact.  Is your wire working?"

          Ironhorse nodded.  "But I get caught up in the race, have to concentrate.  Thought I might've missed something."

          Harrison shook his head.  "No, we still don't know where they are, or what they have planned."

          "Have the competitors been scanned?"

          Blackwood nodded.  "And the volunteers, the crowd, the press.  Even the people who are dropping off the drinks and water, when we can."

          They walked over to the same maroon trailer that one of the soldiers had driven to the site.  Ironhorse gave Eddie a final pat on the neck, saying, "You really earned your oats tonight."

          "He sure is ugly," Blackwood commented.

          Ironhorse ignored the comment, dropping into a stretch as a female voice announced over the P.A. system: "Runners will take their positions in ten minutes.  Ten minutes to the gun."

          Forcing his stiff leg muscles to stretch caused Ironhorse's lip to curl and he hissed softly.  "Damn."

          "Sore?"

          "Hell, yes," was the blunt reply.  "Get me another cup of Gatorade," he said, then called after Blackwood, "Make it two!"

          Stein and Stavrakos joined the Colonel.  "Go easy, sir," Stein suggested. "They've got drinks set up every mile and in this heat too much'll give you cramps for sure."

          Ironhorse leveled a "I-know-that-soldier" look on the wiry man.  "I appreciate that, Stein.  Tell me," he ordered, continuing to stretch.

          "I'll run with the pack," Stavrakos said.

          Ironhorse looked up, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

          "Sir," Stein said.  "Alex and I talked about it.  Alex is probably stronger inside fifteen miles, but I'm faster for a longer race.  I can stay with you at the head of the pack, and if anything happens, I won't lose you."

          Ironhorse nodded.  "Any contact?"

          Both men shook their heads.  "They're trying to scan the reporters now, they're the last obvious bunch," Stein told him.

          "Then we'll doublecheck the cops they have along the route again.  They've been out there a long time all by themselves," Stavrakos added.

          Blackwood joined them, holding out two cups full of the pale green drink.  Ironhorse downed both and handed back the empty cups.  "I've been studying the running course," the astrophysicist said.  "I think they'll hit you between mile seven and eight, if they do."

          "What we've anticipated," Ironhorse said.

          "It's the most remote point of the course, the same spot they struck before… are you sure you'll be protected?"

          "I have people on the hills keeping the trail under observation."

          "I know, but…"  Blackwood trailed off.  "Look, I just have a bad feeling about this, all right?"

          "I'll keep that in mind," Ironhorse replied seriously.

          Harrison blinked, surprised, but said, "Thank you."

          "Look, Harrison, I'm going to be vulnerable at that point, but there's nothing we can do about that."

          "Be careful, Paul."

          He grinned.  "Always."

          Paul returned to his stretching until the public address system announced that the runners should take their positions.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Running the first three miles through the desert unlocked his stiff muscles and Ironhorse felt himself pass into the familiar state of blissful oblivion as far as his searing muscles were concerned.  He also felt his attention begin to focus, narrowing his field of vision to the section of the course right in front of him.  Other distractions and the occasional chatter on the comm-link faded into background noise.  The heat, however, could not be ignored.

          As he reached the third mile marker, he grabbed a cup off the long folding table and chugged it down.

 _Entering mile four_ , the soldier side of his brain announced as he continued on.

          He groaned softly as the first hint of a cramp shot though his left calf.  A ten mile run wouldn't be a problem under normal circumstances, but after the biking, the riding, add the heat, and the necessity of staying with the front-runners, and the strain was starting to take its toll.

 _You're not as young as you used to be_ , he reminded himself.  _But I'm not_ that _damned old…_

          He forced himself to pick up the pace, passing the fourth runner to take up his position.  He was vaguely aware that Stein did the same, hanging just off Ironhorse's left shoulder.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          At the fifth mile marker Paul grabbed two cups of Gatorade and downed them in two long gulps.  Specialist Holt stood at the end of the table.  "The aliens have been spotted in the area," he said into his comm-link.  "Spotted, but not identified.  Be careful, sir."

 _Great_ , Ironhorse hissed silently, suddenly taking Blackwood's "bad feeling" even more seriously.

          He returned to the race, his attention focusing on the need to keep his feet moving fast enough to stay with the two leaders.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Reaching the sixth mile marker, Ironhorse downed three cups of Gatorade and watched one of the lead runners go down.  Two of the four medics stationed at each mile marker moved out to help.  The heat was starting to take a real toll on the runners.

          He reached for a fourth cup but changed his mind, moving with the lead runner as he returned to the trail that would take them through the desert for the next two miles.  The terrain was so rugged that there would be no water stop at mile eight, the runners forced to make it two miles before they could get something to drink again.

          "Mobile-4 aliens contacted, location unknown."

          Paul ground his teeth.  Now _he_ was getting a bad feeling about the race. Where the hell were they?  In the crowd?  Among the volunteers?  The medics?  The press?  The police?

          Any or all of them.

          He forced himself on, entering the most rugged stretch of the race – the section that would take him the furthest away from the other soldiers who monitored his progress. He glanced up.  At least the chopper was back on station above them.

          A slight tingle of fear raised the hairs on his arms and neck.  They were going to strike – he could feel it.

          He pushed himself harder, moving up on the lead runner.  The landscape slipped by, neglected by the soldier, whose attention was focused on the narrowing trail that would take them up through a tight gap between two hills, then back down to the desert floor for a half mile before they hit mile marker nine.

          He glanced briefly to the rear, catching sight of Stein running in the fifth position.  Behind the soldier two other runners were pushing hard, the steep climb slowing even the front runners enough to let some get closer to the leaders.

          The seven men would all be within twenty yards of each other when they headed for the turn that would take them around the first hill.  It was the perfect location for an ambush.

          Ironhorse's gaze scanned the hillside and the flat desert to the north, finding nothing.  He adjusted his focus, concentrating on running and holding the second position.

          They rounded the hill.

          A bright flash of green light blinded Ironhorse and the other runners.  He opened his mouth to call for help and heard Stein's shortened cry of "Mayda—!" before he found himself falling into the hot dust, unable to move or speak.

 _Where the hell did they come from?_ he wondered as twilight settled on his consciousness.  His last thought:   _Damn.  Blackwood was right – again._

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Standing at the end of the course with Suzanne, Derriman, and Coleman, Harrison jumped when he heard Stein's half-strangled "Mayda—!"

          Derriman immediately keyed his radio.  "Go!  Go!  Go!"

          Suzanne, Harrison, and Derriman climbed into the waiting rental jeep and started off, while Coleman, Goodson, and Franklin climbed into a land rover and followed them.

          Harrison reached out, bracing himself with his hands against the dashboard of the Jeep as Derriman floored the accelerator.  The rear tires spun in the loose desert dirt, throwing up a cloud of dust that drifted up into the still air as they pulled onto the paved road and rocketed toward the spot between the eighth and ninth mile.

          "Who are they?" Suzanne asked from the backseat.  "How'd they get past us?"

          "Status?" Derriman barked into the radio he held between thumb and index finger while he gripped the steering wheel with the other three fingers.

          The three waited, listening to the radio reports.

          "Mobile-8.  We saw a flash of green light, we're moving in, no bogies sighted.  Repeat, no bogies."

          "Skyhawk.  We saw the light, too, can't make out activity on the ground, but they're about a half-mile from mile marker nine."

          "Checkpoint-7.  Medics and ambulance just passed by.  Runner was reported down.  Anyone have them in sight?"

          "Roger Checkpoint-7, this is Runner-3.  We had a man down.  Medics picked him up.  That's an all-clear."

          "Damn," Harrison said after Stavrakos's message.  He was hoping that the aliens would be in something obvious.

          "Checkpoint-9, we're missing three hotel volunteers.  Repeat, missing three."

          "Skyhawk, we have a hotel van leaving the area.  Light's faded, we have people down on the trail.  Repeat, we have people down."

          "Roger Skyhawk," Derriman said into the radio.  "Checkpoint-9, what were the missing employees driving?"

          "Hotel van," the soldier at the mile nine checkpoint reported.

          "Mobile-8.  We have a hotel van traveling on a side road, heading north."

          "That's got to be them," Blackwood said.

          "But a lot of the volunteers had hotel vehicles," Suzanne countered.  "How can we be sure?"

          "Mobile-8, this is Rider-2.  Keep that van in sight.  Checkpoint-8 and 9, move in; find out if those men are alive."

          "Roger Rider-2, will do."

          "Mobile-9, Mobile-10, see if you can cut that van off."

          "Roger Rider-2, Mobile-10 moving in."

          "Mobile-9 moving in."

          "Rider-2, this is Skyhawk, the van is taking a dirt road to the west.  I can't stay with them without being obvious."

          "Roger Skyhawk," Derriman said.  "Swing back to the course, try to keep the van in sight."

          "Roger Rider-2," Skyhawk assured.

          Derriman pressed the radio against Blackwood's chest and the scientist took it, asking, "How long?"

          "A-S-A-P, Doctor," Derriman replied.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Consciousness returned in a debilitating flash of agony.  Ironhorse groaned, but the sound remained trapped in his throat, making it feel like he was going to choke.  He tried to move, but the fuzzy green that surrounded him in a diaphanous field held him as securely as steel bands.  _Damn it_ , he swore silently.

          Lying on a padded bench in the back of a van, he listened to the comm-link chatter as the Omegans moved in on them, the only question being whether he'd still be alive and human when they finally arrived.

          The van, traveling through the open, flat desert, was making it impossible for the Omegans to close in—

          The misty field dissipated slightly and he watched three human-blended-aliens maneuver the man who had been leading the event into a small chair.  A thin metal circlet with wires attached was placed around the man's forehead, his arms strapped to the chair with Velcro restraints.

          The alien in the body of a young, tanned, male hotel volunteer reached across to a tangled heap of wire and crystals, both set in a porous sponge-like material that was the same ugly green as the field surrounding Ironhorse and the other kidnapped triathlete.  The alien dipped his hand into one of the larger pores and a scream tore out of the bound athlete's throat, raw and nerve-cutting.

          "It is good," the young man stated flatly.  "The levels are high.  He will be an asset."

          A second alien, in the body of an older male hotel employee, nodded and aimed an odd-looking wand at the athlete.  A flash of green light shot from the tip and the man was enveloped in the paralyzing mist again.

          The third visible alien, housed in the body of a burly Latino police officer, moved the man out of the chair and lifted the man who had been running third into the empty space.  The circlet was placed on his head, the first alien replacing his hand in the spongy material.

          A second tormented scream filled the van and Ironhorse felt himself flinch internally.  What the hell was that machine?  What was it doing to them?

          "His levels are lower, but within acceptable parameters," the second alien stated.  "Bring me the third."

          After stunning the second man, the police officer/alien lifted the athlete out of the chair and laid him on the floor of the van alongside the triathlon leader.  That done, he moved to Ironhorse and maneuvered him from the padded bench into the chair.  Paul fought wildly against the hazy mist, but his muscles remained locked again his control.

          Ironhorse hissed silently as the alien officer moved his limbs like he was a child's doll, arranging him easily in the chair.  He watched the older man slip the circlet onto his head, the metal cold against his forehead.  With a start he realized that his heart was pounding and sweat still broke through his skin, running down his face in thin streams.

          It was like he was suspended, caught in the physical moment of the race but no longer moving—

          Suffering like he'd never experienced in years of soldiering ripped through his body and Ironhorse heard himself scream.  Despite the agony raging through his physical body, Ironhorse's conscious mind watched from a detached position.

          The younger man/alien grinned.  "His levels are the highest of the three. He will be a great asset to our cause."

          The other two grinned and nodded their agreement and Ironhorse felt a wave of cold terror slide through his body on the wake of the searing pain.

          The officer leveled the wand on Paul's chest and he was immediately enveloped in the heavy green mist again, unable to move.  They lowered him to the floor with the other two athletes and he watched the three men, the two hotel employees returning to the front of the van where he could get occasional glimpses of a young woman, also a hotel employee, driving.  The officer sat down in the chair, his dead expression fixed on the three athletes.

 _Where the hell are my people?_ Ironhorse wondered, knowing they were out there, shadowing the van.  They must still be on open, flat terrain.  That meant the valley side of the foothills.  The city side.  They were driving toward Tucson.  _But why?  What the hell are they doing?_

          The sound of Derriman's voice on the ear mike interrupted the Colonel's thoughts.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Rider-2.  Give me a status," Derriman demanded as he drove, trying to forget the scream he had just heard.

          "Rider-2, this is Skyhawk, we have the van in sight."

          "Mobile-9 here.  We're following as closely as we can.  They're moving toward Tucson, we're picking up traffic and closing."

          More reports followed, all with the same message; the soldiers had the van in sight, but there was nowhere to actually stop the vehicle without giving the aliens plenty of time to kill the athletes.  And thus far the aliens appeared to be unaware of the caravan that followed them into the large city.

          Harrison's forehead wrinkled.  He didn't know why, but he knew Paul was in no danger, not yet.  Not until the aliens reached their destination – wherever that was.

          "Let them go," he said quietly, but it was loud enough for both Derriman and Suzanne to hear.

          "What?" they chorused.

          "Let them go wherever it is they're going," Harrison said.

          Derriman shook his head.  "The Colonel—"

          "He'll be fine until they reach their destination," the scientist assured.

          "How can you know that?" Suzanne demanded form the backseat.  "You can't know that, Harrison."

          Blackwood turned in his seat, meeting her angry and concerned gaze.  "I don't know _how_ I know, Suzanne," he admitted.  "But I do know it's true.  Paul will be fine until they get to where they're going.  Then we'll have to move in quickly, or we'll lose him."

          She shook her head.  "You're as mad as Sylvia," she snapped, but there was decided lack of force behind the comment.  When it came to the aliens, Harrison was seldom wrong.  Never _wrong_ , she corrected.

          "Maybe I am crazy," he admitted.  "But that doesn't mean I'm wrong.  Sylvia's never wrong, Suzanne."

          Suzanne sighed heavily.  "I know, I know.  I'm just worried about Paul."

          "Me, too," Harrison admitted.

          "Amen," Derriman added softly.

          In the past the astrophysicist's hunches had always proven to be correct, so maybe they still had a chance.  "I'm sorry," she apologized.

          "That's all right," Harrison assured, then shifted back to look at Derriman.  "But when we get there, can we get in quick?"

          "We'll give it our best shot, Doc."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Laying on the floor of the van, Ironhorse decided that the Omegans were waiting until the aliens got to wherever it was they were going.  _Probably just as well_ , he thought.  If they tried to stop the van on a regular street, they're would be plenty of time for the burly officer to get off three shots.

          He sighed and tried to relax, but the bumpy ride and the locked position of his limbs made that impossible.  It was a wait and see operation now, and Paul waited until Derriman's voice echoed in his ear.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The soldiers trailed the van into the city of Tucson, east down Speedway – the community's main street – to the far side of the sprawling city.  The soldiers in civilian vehicles switched off, making it appear like they were just local residents going who knew where.  The Army-issued hummers followed as well, but along parallel streets, staying carefully out of sight.

          At the eastern foothills the van turned south, heading towards the airport.

          Derriman took up the radio.  "Rider-2.  Hummers move in closer, but stay out of sight."

          "Roger," several voices replied.

          "Skyhawk, Rider-2.  Can you see anything that they're heading for?"

          "Negative, Rider-2.  The street they're on will take them to the airport and past several industrial parks."

          "Roger," Derriman said.

          "Do you think they're going to fly them someplace?" Suzanne asked, leaning forward far enough to rest her forearms on the back of the front seats.

          Harrison shook his head.  I don't think so…"

          "Doc, if you've got a line to the ooga-booga side, let me in on whatever you're pickin' up," Derriman said.

          Blackwood allowed himself a slight smile.  "No, Sergeant, nothing like that.  It's just… a feeling."

          "Workin' for the Colonel, I've got used to followin' feelings, Doc."

          Harrison was about to reply when the van turned into an industrial park, proceeding to a stand-alone warehouse at the far end of the cluster of buildings where it parked alongside a garage-like door.  Derriman followed, parking in the large lot as close to the van as he dared.  Four other cars with soldiers did the same, scattering a respectable distance from the Jeep.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse's breath caught as the van turned, slowed and came to a stop.  They were still outside, he could tell that much from the level of sunlight streaming through the windshield.  He heard the front doors open, the three hotel employees climbing out.  A moment later the sliding door opened and the officer stood, moving over to lift the leader out.  The third man followed.

          Paul waited while the officer climbed out, then reached back and hauled him out.

 _Derriman, you better be out there_ , he thought.  _Today is_ not _a good day to die._

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The soldiers, Suzanne, and Blackwood sat, watching as three human-blended aliens climbed out of the van, then moved to the sliding side door.  An older man pulled that open and a police officer handed out one of the athletes. The young man and young woman took the first athlete and half-carried, half-dragged him to the door, which rose slowly.  They carried the man inside, disappearing from view.

          The older man took the second athlete, maneuvering him inside.  The police officer climbed out of the van, then reached in and pulled Ironhorse out and carried him inside.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Seeing Paul, Harrison stared to move, but Derriman reached out, stopping him.  "You wait here, Doctor," he commanded.  "I'll give you an all clear."  He reached for the radio on the seat and keyed the mike.  "We're going in.  Hummers set a perimeter.  Skyhawk, bring in the troops.  Mobile units, report."

          "Roger, Rider-2, Skyhawk on the way, ETA two minutes."

          "Mobile-10."

          "Mobile-7."

          "Mobile-9."

          "Mobile-8."

          Derriman made a quick calculation, and looked up as Coleman reached him.  "Mobile 7, 8, 9 and 10 are here."

          Coleman reached out, taking the radio and keying the mike.  "Mobile 7, east side.  Eight go south.  Nine go west.  Ten on the north side with me."

          Derriman nodded a slight grin on his face.  It was the same deployment he would have used.

          "You stay with the Doc—" Coleman started to tell the older sergeant.

          "We're going in with you," Blackwood interrupted.  "No arguments, Sergeant."

          Coleman shot the astrophysicist a frustrated, angry glare, but short of hog-tying the man in the Jeep there was no way she could stop him.  She raised the radio to her lips.  "Move."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse squinted as best he could, grateful that he had that much control over his rebellious muscles.  He'd heard Coleman's orders and knew the Omegans were moving in on the building.  And in a few minutes they would be reinforced by the troops in the chopper.  There was a good chance he would get out of this alive.

          The mist cleared slightly and he reconsidered.  Past the green haze was a scene out of a very bad horror movie.  Men sat on exercise bicycles, their legs pumping in macabre rhythm while the aliens moved among the trapped men, checking on the headgear each wore – something that looked to Ironhorse like a combination football helmet and spaghetti strainer.  Wires sprouted from the metal headgear at odd angles.

          The expression on the men's faces sent a shiver down the soldier's back.  They were blank, utterly and completely blank.

 _What was the saying?_ he wondered.  _The lights are on, but nobody's home?_

          He listened to the radio chatter as the Omegans outside moved closer.  They found doors and entered the building, moving steadily toward him.  Goodson had him in sight, but they held back, waiting, not wanting to risk his life.

          He wanted to call out, tell them to attack now, but unless they released him from the green mist prison, he had no way to call for an attack or help.

          The athlete who'd had the lowest whatever it was they were measuring was dragged forward first and pushed into a chair.  Two women wearing t-shirts with a _Mary Kay Cosmetics_ logo approached.  One aimed another of the stubby wands at the man and the green mist disappeared.  The man bolted out of his chair, but the light flashed and he was frozen in place.

          The two women arranged him in the wooden chair, then pointed the wand at him and the light green force-field disappeared.  The man struggled against his restraints.

          "What the hell are you doing?  Who are you?" he demanded angrily.

          The two women ignored him, one reaching for an instrument that looked a little like a dousing wand or a large metal wishbone.  She stepped up to the man and placed the two ends on his temples.  A scream erupted from the athlete's throat and Ironhorse struggled uselessly against green haze.

          When the woman removed the device the man slumped back in the chair.  The pair released the man from his restraints and guided him to an empty bike and helped him on.  That done, they secured his feet to the pedals with duct tape, then placed one of the bizarre helmets on his head.  The man straightened slightly, cried out, then fell to pedaling like the others.

          The two women returned to the chair and signaled for the triathlon leader to be brought to the chair.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "What the hell're they doing?" Goodson asked softly.

          Blackwood shook his head, unable to even venture a guess.  It reminded him of the set-up he'd seen in Beeton, but this was different.  "We can't let him get on that bike," he said lowly.

          "Seven in place," echoed softly over the radio.

          "Eight in place."

          "Nine set."

          "Ten ready to go."

          The second kidnapped athlete screamed as he was shocked into submission.   The pretty blonde sergeant paused a moment, then glanced at Derriman and Goodson.  "Okay, we move up, then hit them from all sides.  First priority is keeping doctors Blackwood and McCullough safe, second is getting the Colonel, then—"

          "Sergeant—" Harrison started.

          "Then the civilians."  She turned slightly meeting Blackwood's angry gaze.  "Look, Blackwood, I let you get hurt, the Colonel will have my ass.  You just stay with us and do what you're told, understand?"

          It took a moment, but Blackwood nodded.

          "Okay," she said.  "Let's go."

          They moved slowly and carefully through the remainder of dim warehouse toward the aliens, using the stacks of boxes as cover.  Two minutes later they were as close to the aliens as they dared.  Coleman raised the radio.  "Go!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse heard the soldiers report themselves in position, then watched as the second man was subdued.  From the look and sound of it, the aliens were shocking their victims into a stupor like they had in Beeton.  But then what?  He risked a quick glance at the peddling men.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The deed done, the two Mary Kay saleswomen led the man to another empty bike and helped him on, securing him like they had the first.  Another scream echoed through the warehouse, he started to pedal, then women started back for Ironhorse.

 _I'm next_.

          The officer moved him closer to the chair, the two women taking the colonel and directing him to the seat.  Outside he could hear the distant _wop_ of chopper blades as Skyhawk landed.  The aliens were about to find out their operation had been discovered.

          The young man who had helped abduct the athletes ran up to join them. "A helicopter's landing outside.  They're from a local news station."

          The aliens fell into rapid conversation in their own language, the odd sounds indecipherable to the soldier.  Without explanation the officer and hotel employees rushed for the exits.  The two women arranged Paul in the chair.

 _Any time now_ , he silently commanded the soldiers.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison leaned forward to see what the aliens were doing as they secured the second man to an exercise bicycle.  Coleman reached out, pulling him back behind the cover of the stacked boxes.

          "I have to see what they're doing," Blackwood argued softly.

          "Not yet, Doctor," she replied.

          "Skyhawk.  We're setting down on the roof of the warehouse."

          "Roger, Skyhawk.  Secure any exits and set-up fields of fire in case they make a run for it."

          "Roger."

          She paused, dropping lower as the three race volunteers rushed up, excited about the chopper.  They waited as the aliens lapsed into alien-speak. Then three left in a hurry, the two women turning their attention back to the Colonel.

          "Get ready," Coleman said.  "On my three.  One…"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _One…_ Ironhorse counted silently with Coleman's voice as the women secured his wrists to the chairarms.  That done, they both stepped back.  One of the women raised the stubby wand and aimed it at him.

          "Two…"

_Two…_

          A flash of gray-white light blinded him momentarily, but Ironhorse felt his muscles unlock, his fingers curling automatically as he tested the restraints; too tight to escape.

          The second woman stepped up, holding the wishbone-looking tool.

          "Three!"

          "Now!" Ironhorse said in unison with Coleman's order.

          Gunfire erupted in the warehouse, Paul realizing that there were more aliens present than he'd seen.  One of the women screeched as she went down, her chest beginning to bubble as she melted.

          The second leaned forward, placing the device against Ironhorse's temples, then stepped back, reaching for the switch.

          "Stop them!" Blackwood bellowed, pointing at the women who moved to fix the alien device on Ironhorse's head.

          Coleman and Goodson swept out from behind the boxes, opening fire.  One of the women went down, the other too close to Ironhorse to risk firing upon.

          The second woman positioned the device, then stepped back, moving for the switch.

          Coleman and Goodson both shifted their weapons, following the woman until she moved past the Colonel.  They both centered on the woman as her hand reached for the switch.  They fired just before her fingers brushed the button, the force of the blast pressing her fingers against the switch.

          Ironhorse screamed and jerked in the chair.

          Ignoring the danger, Blackwood lunged forward, grabbing the device and pulling it off Paul's head.  Ironhorse slumped forward, eyes shut and shoulders sagging.

          Coleman kept them covered as Goodson and Suzanne rushed to join Harrison.  The medic checked for a pulse while Blackwood freed Ironhorse's wrists.

          "Paul?" Harrison said, reaching out to press Ironhorse back in the chair.

          "Excuse me, Dr. Blackwood," the medic said, gently moving Harrison aside so he could check the Colonel over.

          Harrison straightened and took a step back, waiting with Suzanne while Goodson worked.  He reached out, slipping an arm around Suzanne's shoulders and giving her arm a squeeze.

          "He'll be all right," he assured quietly, hoping his own doubts didn't make it to his voice.

          "I hope you're right," she replied, glancing over at the men who still pedaled, oblivious to the events happening in front of them.  "We should take a look at them.  Try to figure something out…"

          "But—"

          "Harrison, we're just in the way here, and like you said, he'll be all right. We should look, try to understand what the aliens were doing."  She looked at the zombie-faced athletes.  "Maybe we can find a way to help them, too."

          Harrison nodded, but cast one more glance at Paul and the medic before allowing Suzanne to guide him over to the athletes.  Together they examined the macabre headgear, going carefully to ensure that they did not harm the men.

          "Ohmygod," Suzanne gasped a few minutes later.  She took a step backward, a hand coming up to press against the base of her throat.

          "What?" Harrison asked, stepping over to join her.

          "They've placed a probe in their brains," she said, swallowing hard.  "But why?  What in the world are they doing?"

          Harrison shook his head, unable to fathom a reason.

          "Dr. Blackwood, Dr. McCullough," Goodson called.

          The two scientists left the athletes, returning to the colonel and the medic.  They both smiled when they found Ironhorse's eyes open, but their happiness quickly faded.

          "What's wrong?" Harrison asked.  "Is he awake?"

          The medic nodded.  "He's conscious, but unresponsive.  I think he took the equivalent of a heavy electroshock treatment."

          "ECT?" Suzanne echoed.  "What was the setting?"

          "I have no idea," Goodson admitted.  "The dial isn't marked – not in English, anyway."

          "Great," she sighed.

          "What does that mean?" Harrison demanded, reaching out to grip her arm.

          Suzanne was interrupted by several soldiers who converged on them and Coleman, who still stood guard.  "The warehouse is secure," Derriman said.  "We got all the aliens."

          "And these," Franklin said, holding up two clear glass bottles full of a milk-colored liquid.

          "I'll have to take those back to my lab," Suzanne said, reaching out to take one of the liter bottles from the soldier and examining the fluid visually.

          "We're sweeping the warehouse for any paperwork," Derriman said.  "These boxes all contain exercise equipment, but there's a group of offices."  He glanced at Ironhorse.  "The chopper's standing by.  Maybe we should get him to a doctor."

          "Might not be a bad idea," Goodson said.  "But I want to wait a little longer, see if he comes around.  I'm monitoring his vitals; if there's a change we'll fly him out of here."

          Derriman and Coleman nodded.  Norah turned to the scientists.  "What about the rest of these guys?"

          Suzanne shook her head.  "We're going to have to get help in here.  The aliens have placed some kind of brain implant in these men—"

          "Excuse me," Matthews interrupted.  "I think you better come see this."

          The tall, husky blond soldier led the two scientists to the far side of the exercise bicycles, stopping next to a large suction-driven pump attached to a larger glass bottle that was slowly filling with the same milky fluid.

          "What do you think?" the soldier asked.

          Suzanne felt the blood drain from her face and she sucked in a deep breath before she said, "I think that brain probe's extracting whatever this substance is."  She knelt, staring at the thin trickle that dripped into the bottle.  "It has to be some kind of cortical chemical or substance.  Nothing else makes sense."

          "I'll see to it this is sent back to the Cottage," Matthews assured.

          Suzanne nodded.  "But don't touch the equipment, or anything that's associated with the athletes.  Not until we get some doctors in here."

          Matthews nodded.

          Suzanne and Harrison walked carefully down a line of the still peddling men, reaching Coleman as she returned her radio to her belt.  "I called in the locals.  Maybe Dr. Hilderbrant can figure out what to do for these men," she said.

          The two scientists nodded.  "I'd like to stay," Suzanne said, glancing at Paul, who still sat, staring glassy-eyed at some unseen point on the floor.  "I might be able to help."

          Harrison nodded, then gave her a quick hug.  "I'll take Paul and we'll go back to the hotel."

          "I'll have one of the physicians from Davis Monthan Air Force Base meet us there," Goodson said.  "Someone in the flight surgeon's office should have a top secret clearance."

          "I'll call it in," Coleman said.  "You get him back there."

          "Thank you," Harrison said to the two soldiers.

          "Take two men for security," Coleman called.

          "I've got it," Derriman responded, then waved.  "Franklin, you're with me."

          Goodson helped Ironhorse stand, and with Blackwood and Derriman's help, maneuvered the colonel out to the rented Jeep.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Derriman opened the bungalow door and entered first, making sure the building was secure before Harrison and Goodson helped Ironhorse in.  Stein and Stavrakos waited inside with a tall, distinguished-looking Colonel in an orange flight-suit.  With gray hair and a good tan, he looked more like an aging playboy than a doctor.

          "I'm Dr. Norman Hawkins," the Colonel said, moving to help the pair lower Ironhorse onto the padded sofa.

          While Goodson and Blackwood made Paul comfortable, Hakwins retrieved his medical bag, then returned to the sofa.  Waving the two men back, he set to work, checking Ironhorse's pulse, respiration, blood pressure, pupils, and autonomic responses. That done, he paused to jot down several lines of notes before starting on a series of more specific neurological tests.

          "Well?" Harrison asked when Hawkins finally stood and stretched, rubbing his lower back.

          "He's doing fine, physically, as far as I can tell.  I'd like to get him back to the base and run some more tests, take an MRI."  He noted the concerned expressions.  "Any idea what level of shock he received?"

          "None," Blackwood admitted.  "The dials weren't labeled."

          A slight groan from the couch stopped the conversation.  Hawkins and Blackwood moved to Ironhorse.

          Paul blinked, one hand rising slowly to his forehead.  He rubbed.  "Fuckin'-A," he muttered.

          "Paul?" Harrison said, squatting down to get eye-level with the prone man.

          Ironhorse's eyes cracked open, then he blinked and looked at Blackwood.  "I have the mother of all headaches, Blackwood.  No interrogation.  And keep your voice down, _please_."

          The hint of a grin passed over Harrison's lips before he nodded somberly.

          "Did we get 'em?"

          "Yes," Harrison said.  "The…"  He glanced up at Hawkins.  "All the terrorists are dead."

          "The athletes?" Paul pressed, rubbing his head again.

          "We're not sure what they were doing to them.  We called in Hilderbrant and his people.  Suzanne's with them at the warehouse."

          "I'd still like to take Colonel Ironhorse back to the base," the doctor said.

          "I'm fine," Paul argued, glowering at the man.

          "I'll be the judge of that, Colonel," Hawkins countered.

          Ironhorse peeked out between his fingers.  The good doctor wasn't going to take no for an answer, and he did out rank him.  "All right, but I want a radio."

          "As soon as we get you checked out, Colonel," Hawkins told him flatly.  "Until then you're just a patient."

          Paul sighed.  He was outnumbered and outranked and his head hurt too much to argue.  "Fine, but let's get it over with."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison sat in a plastic chair, pursuing a year-old issue of _Natural Health_ while he waited for Hawkins and Ironhorse to reappear.  He checked his watch – a little over an hour since they'd arrived at the Air Force hospital and Hawkins had taken Paul off for whatever tests he was going to run.  Not that much time.

          God, but he hated waiting!

          He tossed the magazine back on the waiting room coffee table when Suzanne entered, looking shaken and pale.  "Are you all right?" he asked, pushing himself to his feet.

          "No," she replied, heading directly to the empty sofa and sitting down.

          He joined her, resting a hand on her arm.  "What is it?"

          "We lost them."

          "The athletes?"

          She nodded.

          "All of them?"

          Another nod.

          "How?  Why?  I mean—"

          "We were looking for a way to remove the probes, get them out of those damned machines—"  She stopped, pressing her lips tightly together and looking away until she could get a rein on her emotions.  "While we were working, one of the men died.  The probe spontaneously retracted.  To preserve the purity of the extract is my guess."

          "And?" Harrison prompted when she showed no inclination to continue.

          "We decided to try simulating death to see if we could get the probes to retract."  She fished into the pocket of her cotton pants and pulled out a tissue, wiping her eyes.  "When we injected one of the men—"  She stopped, cleared her throat and forced herself to go on.  "It was like we tripped a failsafe of some kind.  The probes exploded."

          "Oh my God," Harrison said softly.  "Exploded?"

          She nodded.  "They were all killed – instantly."  She met his troubled gaze.  "If we'd just gone a little slower, been more careful."

          "It's not your fault."

          "Keep telling me that."  She wiped her eyes.  "How's Paul?"

          "Paul's going to be fine.  He woke up at the bungalow, but the doctor wanted to run a few more tests, just to be sure."

          "Thank goodness," Suzanne said.

          "Any idea what the aliens were after?"

          "Hilderbrant's people are analyzing the contents of the bottles now.  We should know why twenty-five men died by tomorrow morning."

          "Twenty-five?"  Harrison shook his head.  "When is it going to end?"

          "I don't know," Suzanne replied.  "But it better be soon, because they're getting more and more sophisticated."

          "That's what scares me."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Endorphins?" Ironhorse repeated, walking over and sitting down on the comfortable bungalow couch.

          Suzanne nodded.  "That's what the alien machine was extracting from their brains. And it was incredibly pure, but why that's the case?  We don't have a clue."

          Paul puffed his cheeks.  "But why triathletes?  Why not marathon runners?"

          "There are a lot more triathlons than marathons, big guy," Norton said.

          "The real question is, why do they need human endorphins?" Harrison asked, walking in from the kitchen carrying a tray with four steaming cups of coffee.  "And are they going to try to get them another way?"

          "I hope not," Suzanne said, taking a cup off the tray.  "As for why?  I don't know."

          "I've got Mama Cray workin' on it," Norton added.

          Harrison handed Ironhorse his cup, then slid the tray onto the coffee table and sat with his own cup in one of the chairs.  "The local papers reported that you would've come in second or third if you'd finished the race," he informed Paul, changing the topic.

          "Not first, huh?"

          "No, not first," Harrison replied.

          Ironhorse shrugged.  "Well, I wasn't there to win."

          Suzanne saw the spark ignite between the two men and was grateful for the return to normalcy.  She'd had more than enough nightmares for a while.

          "Does that mean that you think you _could've_ won?" Harrison asked.

          "Of course."

          God, it was good to have Paul back and healthy.  "Come on, Colonel," the astrophysicist said, leaning forward as he slipped into the spirit of the debate.  "You can't really believe that you could've _won_ this thing, do you?"

          "I do," Ironhorse half-growled, the black eyes narrowing.

          Harrison leaned back and shook his head.

          "And I suppose you don't think I could?"

          "I didn't say that," Blackwood countered.

          "Well, what exactly _did_ you mean, Blackwood?"

          Suzanne grinned.  Definitely back to normal…

 


End file.
